


Help is coming (one day late)

by chimosa



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mind Games
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-16 17:44:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/864834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chimosa/pseuds/chimosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Set post-Savoureux: There are other ways to escape</i> </p>
<p>“You were right,” Alana sighs, sinking into the leather cushions as she sits back. “He doesn’t want to be found.”</p>
<p>“Well,” Hannibal says, setting the small cup on the low table between them. “We must not give him a choice in the matter.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> And still the writing continues. One of these days I'm gonna stop, I swear. Just not yet...
> 
> Feedback is, of course, the Malibu rum in the pineapple juice of life.

Alana visits Will once a month, though it wasn’t always that way. When he was first transferred to the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, she made a point of visiting once a week. Despite all the security hoops she had to jump through, it seemed like the right thing to do. Will was out of his induced coma but that didn’t mean his nightmare was over, and she still was his friend. Even after everything, she never stopped believing in him. 

“Please, Will,” she would beg. “You told me you thought you were set up. You must know _something_ about who might have done this to you. Even if Jack’s written you off, I can still look into it for you. Make some inquiries-”

“No.” His voice was firm and they both knew he was protecting her when he said: “I was mistaken.”

“I don’t believe you. I know you remember-”

“I don’t remember anything.”

Of course, she wasn’t above emotional manipulation. “Your dogs miss you, you know. I catch them looking out the window sometimes, and it’s like they are waiting for you to come home.”

But this place had hardened Will in ways that fracture something inside of Alana. His blue gaze is steel and his jaw is tight when he looks past her. “They’re not. They’re just dogs.”

“I want you to stop coming here,” he would say every time Alana would finally rise from her chair and touch the bars separating them in farewell. He never came close enough for her to reach through and feel him, this was the best she could do. His eyes would stare at the metal like her touch had left a mark he could still see.

“I’ll think about it,” she would say, noncommittal, but they both knew the next week she would be back. 

When the new class of trainees start, Alana finds herself falling into the familiar rabbit hole of giving lectures and seeing patients until she looks at the calendar with a jolt and realizes three Mondays have come and gone. 

Will doesn’t seem any the worse for her neglect, he still stays just out of reach. He still avoids looking at her, instead fixing his gaze on the air slightly to her right. When she apologizes for her lapse he only shrugs and she realizes sadly that time enough has passed for them both to accept this as their new reality. 

“I want you to stop coming here,” Will says, and Alana knows it isn’t just her that he is protecting. His life, as confined as it is, has moved on just as hers has. 

“I’ll be back in a month.” A compromise he accepts with a stiff nod. 

It gets easier after that. Will doesn’t open up to her, not quite, but he’s more willing to talk.

“Does Hannibal ever come to see you?” 

Will’s laugh is dark, bitter. “I see my fair share of psychiatrists. Dr. Lecter doesn’t happen to be one of them.”

“I can talk to him for you,” she offers. “I know how well you two worked together despite the....” - _kidnapping, attempted murder_ \- “complications.”

“Don’t,” he says finality in the shake of his head, like a dog casting off water, and his hair looks dull under the fluorescent lights. “He came once, he’s said his piece.”

Another month goes by and it’s a shock to see that in that time Will’s hair had been shorn off. She extends a hand through the bars, but as always he is too far away.

“What happened to your hair?” Alana asks, more upset than she should be, but Will’s hair has always been something she silently admired. More than once she has caught herself remembering the soft weight of it between her fingers as Will’s lips moved across her own. Without it, Will now looks every bit the hardened criminal the law has deemed him to be.

“EEG,” he says like that’s explanation enough but Alana’s brow furrows in confusion.

“But it isn’t necessary to shave your head if they’re just monitoring the electrical activity of your brain.”

Will’s mouth twists in a parody of a smile. “I guess they got tired of it always getting caught in the wires.”

Alana blinks. “How often did they put you on the EEG?”

“It’s part of an ongoing study,” Dr. Chilton says, bristling when Alana storms into his office. “As a patient under my supervision I’ve made the determination-”

But Alana is too livid to hear any more of his mealy-mouthed excuses. “You are _experimenting_ on him.”

“I am making inquiries for the good of furthering psychiatric understanding!” 

Alana steps close, eyes narrowed and Dr. Chilton sinks a little lower in his chair, like the desk between them can save him from her wrath. 

“You’ve been itching to study Will Graham for years and now that he’s been locked up here you thought you’d take your chance.”

“I’m well within my rights-”

“Not morally! Not with your rather obvious agenda. You are taking advantage-”

“He’s a criminal!” Dr. Chilton yells, his face red. “Morality doesn’t matter, not when he’s been deemed too dangerous for society. There’s only one way he can continue to be of use and that’s by studying him, studying that extraordinary mind of his.”

“Didn’t you learn your lesson the last time you tried to play God with one of your patients?”

Dr. Chilton’s hand presses against his stomach, no doubt to the scar that still cuts across his torso. “I’ve made my mistakes, Dr. Bloom. But it would be a far graver error to let an opportunity like this pass by when there is still so much to be learned about the mind.”

Alana is so angry she is shaking, but she knows there’s nothing that can be done. Everyone she knows with any kind of authority washed their hands of Will Graham long ago.

“I’ll be sure to thank you when I’m accepting my Nobel,” Dr Chilton says to her back and it takes everything she has to straighten her spine and keep walking when all she wants to do is feel his cheekbone shatter against her fist. 

“It’s not so bad,” Will says after another month has gone by. “At least it breaks up the days.”

“But you’ve always been so scared of this, of being studied.”

Will only shrugs, his eyes distant.

“I’m worried you’ve given up.”

He is quiet so long, Alana doesn’t think he’s going to respond. Instead she taps the cool iron of the bars separating them good-bye and turns to leave.

“When I give up, you’ll know it,” Will promises and her throat closes at the thought. 

“Will,” she tries, but he is back to staring into space.

Two months go by before she can visit Will again. This time she is stopped by the guard and told that Dr. Chilton would like to see her. Her skin prickles, fight or flight, because she knows this can’t be good. It will be a cold day in hell when Dr. Chilton would _like_ to see her, especially after their last confrontation.

“What did you do?” She asks before she’s even fully in his office.

He holds up his hands, trying to placate her or ward her off, she’s not sure. 

“This isn’t my fault,” he says which is a terrible way to begin. Alana’s hands tighten into fists.

“What did you _do_?”

Dr. Chilton exhales and his body deflates. With his head hanging down he says, “You’d better come with me.”

Alana tries to prepare herself as they make their way down the cement hallway, the click of her heels the only sound between them. All kinds of grim images dance through her head so it’s a relief when she finally gets to Will’s cell. Although he looks a little thinner, his hair still shaved to the quick, he doesn’t look any worse than that. 

“Will?” She calls, since he doesn’t seem to notice her approach, but he doesn’t respond. 

“Will,” she tries again. A dawning of understanding ripples across her body and leaves sick realization in its wake.

He is sitting at the edge of his cot, the grey of his jumpsuit only serving to highlight the sallow pallor of his skin. His hands rest on his knees and his back is preternaturally straight as he stares into space with an utter lack of expression. Alana walks to the edge of the cell, trying to get a better look at him, and now she can see that, aside from the faint rise and fall of his breath, his eyes are the only things that move. They flicker, back and forth, darting in a wild parody of a REM cycle. He is neither awake nor is he asleep, and Alana feels a flash of fear as she wonders what that tremendous imagination of Will’s could be conjuring.

“How long?” Alana asks, though she has to try twice before her dry throat will let the words out.

“A few weeks,” Dr. Chilton admits, his voice uncharacteristically subdued. “I had a number of doctors in, running tests, charting Will’s mind, so it’s hard to pinpoint what it was that triggered this exactly. One day he just stopped responding- to the doctors, to the guards, to any kind of stimulus.”

She blinks and suddenly there are tears on her cheeks. She swipes them away. “He retreated into his mind.”

“We’ve tried to get through to him,” he says and now Alana can see the blistered skin on Will’s temple from a hastily applied ECT electrode, “but it’s no use. We both know how powerful the mind can be for most people and-”

“And Will is not most people,” she concludes. “Let me in, I want to see him.”

“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea,” Dr. Chilton tries but Alana just looks at him until he signals the guard.

This close, Alana can see that Will’s lips are moving. The movement is minuscule and she lays her thumb gently on his bottom lip but he doesn’t so much as flinch at the contact. She can feel his breath as it pushes past her finger and she isn’t even ashamed that Dr. Chilton can see her crying now. 

“Hold on, Will,” she whispers, watching his lips and she can still remember their warm press against her own. “I’ll come get you.”

But she isn’t so sure he wants to be found.

 _When I give up, you’ll know it,_ he had said to her months ago and now, as she watches his dark lashes fluttering and his familiar eyes gone as flat and distant as the stars, she knows.

_The skin of his hands are tight where the shovel’s handle has rubbed. He can feel sweat trickling down his shoulder blades, but he has long since abandoned himself to the heat. To stop digging now would be to admit he doesn’t know what he’s looking for, so still he continues on. The ground is soft where the shovel’s metal edges pierce and he can smell the upturned earth, rich and dark with secrets, with every new layer revealed._

_Will’s biceps flex as he moves to toss the dirt away with a practiced flick. His white undershirt is yellow from his labors, and it’s funny how he can both feel the strain of his work in his tired shoulders_ and _watch his progress from a comfortable distance beneath the gentle shade of a tree._

“He hasn’t moved from there since last night. We can usually get him to eat if we put it to his mouth and feed him, but he doesn’t do anything other than that.”

_Will can feel a breeze whisper across his face as he surveys the ground he has dug up, the holes six feet deep that line the otherwise undisturbed forest._

_“Doesn’t do anything?” he says, or he thinks he says, it’s so hard to tell. “What do you call all this?”_

_Will watches as still he labors on._


	2. Chapter 2

It’s hard to believe that nearly a year has gone by since last she saw Dr. Hannibal Lecter. While the general agreement has been that it wasn’t Hannibal’s fault that he’d been unable to spot the encephalitis before it was too late, Alana’s anger still simmers like a pot left forgotten on the stove. 

“Alana,” Hannibal says when he opens his office door, surprise and pleasure wrapping around the syllables of her name. “Your timing is impeccable, I do not have a patient scheduled for another hour.”

“I’m sure this won’t take that long,” she says as she is ushered in. 

His office is every bit as impressive as she remembers it; art and architecture blended together to give the impression that this was a man worthy of veneration. Alana remembers too well how easy it is to admire Hannibal, even with all that has transpired there is still the vestiges of the starry-eyed PH.D candidate in her. She had been so eager to impress back then, wanting so badly to prove she was worth every scrap of Hannibal’s regard. She’s analyzed enough patients since then to know her feelings of betrayal aren’t necessarily Hannibal’s fault but rather the result of her former idolization and the hard reality of his fallibility colliding. It doesn’t make her any less bitter. 

“To what do I owe the honor of your visit, Alana, after all this time?”

“Will Graham,” she says the name like a weapon and is pleased when Hannibal looks away, like he can feel the bite of it. 

Hannibal sits, indicating the seat across from him with the graceful turn of his hand but Alana prefers to stand. It’s easier to access her indignation this way.

“I have not seen Will in many months, I’m afraid. Not since his incarceration began.”

“I know,” Alana says, circling around the chair she has no trouble imagining Will sitting in, feverish and shaking and unaware of why. “Nobody has.”

“You have, I presume,” Hannibal says, neutral. “My psychiatrist advised against my taking any further part in his rehabilitation and I found I had to agree with her, more so after he attempted to shoot me in Minnesota.”

“Sounds like good advice,” she says, matching his tone beat for beat. “Will said that you visited him.”

Hannibal looks down to smooth his tie. “That is true. I believed I owed it to him, as his friend. Although as his psychiatrist I’m not sure my visit was of use to either of us.”

“You believed him once, that someone was framing him for all those murders.”

Hannibal tilted his head. “I did, although after so much of the evidence came to light I am now not as certain. It’s a difficult thing, to be manipulated by someone you trust, someone who may or may not be a sociopath.”

“Will is not a sociopath,” Alana says and it’s louder than she means for it to be, far too loud for this room lined with books and draped with civility. “You spent more time inside his head than anyone, you of all people should know that.”

“I should think the fact that I spent more time inside his head than anyone and even _I_ have my reservations should speak to the complexity of the issue. Perhaps he is, perhaps he is not, that is no longer for me to say. I’m sure he is in capable hands at the State Hospital.”

“He’s in Frederick Chilton’s hands,” and she can feel her ire fade as she remembers the shell of a person Dr. Chilton has turned him in to. Without her anger propping her up Alana is left feeling tired, vulnerable. “And that’s the entire problem.”

_The radio rasps, warps, as Will turns the dial. He tries to find a station with decent reception, though it isn’t easy, not from the middle of the lake._

_“There,” his dad says as he cracks open another beer from the cooler. “Go back.”_

_Will isn’t surprised and turns the dial backward until he finds the warbling voice of Hank Williams. “Did ya’ever see a robin weep when leaves begin to die? It means he’s lost the will to live.”_

_His dad hums as he casts his fishing line out, toe tapping against the rusting aluminum of the boat. He sings along with Hank, tuneless as ever: “I’m so lonesome I could cry.”_

_“This is the good stuff, Will. None of that screaming and hair tossing can’t-understand-what-they’re-sayin’ junk. Just one guy and his guitar.”_

_And his debilitating depression, Will remembers thinking, but he’s not sure if he says it out loud or not. He’s not even sure if he thought it then or years later when he remembered this scene at his father’s funeral. Or maybe it’s a new thought, that’s possible, too._

_He does remember asking if he can have a beer because his dad laughed at that._

_“You’re twelve, Will.”_

_He watches as his dad’s throat is bared as he tilts back for another gulp. It’s muggy out, the morning rain settling down into an oppressively dense humidity and Will can feel his t-shirt clinging to his skin under the afternoon sun. “So? I won’t tell Mom.”_

_“You’re going to be trouble, I knew that ever since you were born,” his dad laughs, but he hands over the bottle. Will’s fingers are wet where they slide against the condensation. It tastes-_

“That’s right. Drink. Would hate for you to get dehydrated on top of it all. Dr. Chilton already thinks you’re more trouble than you’re worth without putting you on a drip, too.”

_\- not like what he was expecting. Will makes a face that earns him an affectionate cuff to the side of his head. “It’s something you learn to like. Takes a while but one day it won’t taste so bad.”_

_“Why would you_ want _to keep drinking it when it tastes so bad?”_

_“It does the trick,” he says and Will, unbound by the tethers of time can see his father, now with grey in his hair and grief around his eyes as he crushes a beer can and throws it towards the garbage can. It bounces off the wall and, judging by the cans scattered across the floor, it’s not the first time he’s missed today._

_“What would mom say, if she saw this mess?” Will demands hotly as he sets down his backpack. He can’t stand too straight or the pain in his stomach gets worse, the bruises from Pete Heckle’s boots are still red, barely formed, and all he wants to do is take a shower and go to bed. He doesn’t want to deal with his father on top of the shitty day he’s had._

_The reddened eyes of a stranger look blearily at him. “Not really my problem anymore, is it?”_

Hannibal makes a show of considering Alana’s request and she is beautiful as she burns with anger. He can taste her indignation on the back of his tongue, the bitterness is an acquired taste but he has spent years cultivating his palate.

“It is not that I do not wish to help, it is simply that I’m not sure what I can do for him. If he has put himself into a catatonic stupor as you say, he would need intense stimulation to bring him out of it. The hospital has the proper resources to do that much.”

“They tried,” she says, nostrils flaring. “Will’s got _burns_ from the electroconvulsive therapy and still he didn’t respond.”

“Will has always had a high threshold for physical pain,” Hannibal remembers fondly, but he keeps his tone professional. “Perhaps an auditory stimulation, then.”

Alana is shaking her head, hair wafting the scent of her jade perfume and caustic exasperation to where he sits. He subtly sniffs the air, appreciative. “They’ve tried, Hannibal. I’m telling you, if there’s one thing more powerful than Will’s mind it’s his stubbornness. He doesn’t want to come out of it.”

“Then wouldn’t it be more merciful to leave him in peace, respect his wishes, so to speak?”

“You speak as if he’s dead.”

_He’s digging again, or maybe he never stopped._

_This hole is deeper than the other ones, so deep that he has to jump down into it to keep digging. Where Will stands, observing, he can only see the very top of his head as he labors._

_Inside the ditch he is surrounded by musky, cool dirt. The savaged ends of grass roots reach for his neck, and it is startling whenever one brushes against his sensitive skin but he tries not to let it distract him._

“Will? It’s Alana. I brought someone with me this time, I hope that’s okay.”

_It’s a strain to lift the shovel high enough for it to clear the top of the pit, of course, but Will’s never been one to shy away from hard work. He stops to wipe his brow with hands gone muddy where sweat mixes with dirt. Looking up he’s relieved to see the noon sun has left the sky. There’s not much he can see from where he stands in the ditch, but he has a clear view of the moon. The air is sweet, even this far in the ground, and Will wants so much to sit, to lay down this heavy burden, but he knows he can’t._

_Not yet._

“You might as well come in, this is as responsive as he gets.”

_There’s something wrong with the moon. Will watches as it flickers, sways wildly in the navy sky, like it’s held up by fishing line. The soil that surrounds Will trembles, spills down into his hair and his eyes, burns as it forces down his esophagus. He struggles, tries to breath but his nose is blocked as more dirt cascades over him, covers his arms like a cashmere throw._

_There’s a pain in his leg and he looks down fast enough he can see the slick, jagged shine of bone as it pierces his thigh before it is covered in the rising, churning pile of dirt. His arm snaps with a sound like a fallen tree branch, and this time he can see the split skin, the black ooze of blood even as it, too, is covered by soil. He opens his mouth, wants to cry out._

_Will leans against a tree, watches passively as in the pit he struggles against the earth. His bones crack, splinter from within, and he watches as he is attacked by both his own body and his environment._

_He never had a chance._

“Hello, Will.”

_The ground groans as he is swallowed whole, buried in a grave of his own making. Will waits, watches, but there is no stirring in the earth, no sign of movement._

_He sighs as he takes up the shovel from where it is leaning against a tree. The moon is snapped off it’s line and plummets out of sight. The noon sun is back and his skin burns where his neck and shoulders are exposed._

“It has been a while.”

_Will walks to the undisturbed ground where he last saw himself disappear. The earth is unbroken, thick carpets of grass drape across the ground and he has to step on his shovel to give it enough force to break through the pristine forest floor._

“I am looking forward to working together, again.”

_Will bats at a mosquito as it buzzes against his ear, thirsting for blood. He tries to catch it between his hands but misses. He can feel it’s wings beat as it comes near again, trying a second time but he ignores it._

_It doesn’t matter, Will thinks as he tips a shovelful of dirt behind him. He has work to do._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Ivy_B for a beta and TheMoose an image.   
> Feedback is like the morsels of inspiration for tiny minds like mine...

“I find myself at a loss,” Hannibal says, sipping at his espresso. The small cafe is quiet now, the hour has gone too late for those seeking lunch and too early yet for the hordes of workers leaving their nine-to-fives. The cafe was Alana’s idea and though he has never been here before, the dark wood countertops and leather couches give an air of intimacy that Hannibal appreciates. 

“I’m not sure what I was expecting,” Alana admits, holding her ceramic mug of cafe au lait between her hands, warming them, though she has yet to take a sip. “I guess somehow I was expecting Will to, I don’t know, hear your voice and snap out of it. Childish of me, I know.”

“Understandable. You would wish for a quick remedy for what ails him, but I am afraid the mind is not so easy to fix.”

Alana’s expression is faraway but she shakes herself from her reverie. “Thank you. For coming out and trying.”

“I only wish I could have been more help.”

“You were right,” Alana sighs, sinking into the leather cushions as she sits back. “He doesn’t want to be found.”

“Well,” Hannibal says, setting the small cup on the low table between them. “We must not give him a choice in the matter.”

“So you’ll help?” Alana’s voice is eager.

“Despite my better judgement, I find myself wanting to help our dear Will very much.”

And it is true. Without the other man to fixate on, Hannibal’s days are spent seeing patients, crafting meals, attending the symphony, and committing the occasional murder. His life reverted to their familiar rhythms, as if Jack Crawford had never walked into his office, though now it all seems so banal. Even setting a spectacular kill scene isn’t enough to elevate Hannibal from this ennui that follows him like a dense fog. 

Will Graham had been a puzzle, but more than that he had been a challenge, and Hannibal is not used to being challenged. At least, not by the uninspired masses. To stay one step ahead of the other man, to feed him just enough morsels of truth to leave him doggedly pursuing more, had been the result of relentless calculations that filled his nights and overtook his days. Without Will to kill to, without imagining the other man unwittingly eating the fruits of his labors, the whole business has lost its luster. 

Alana finally takes a sip of her coffee, no doubt it has long since turned cold. She is so deep in thought, however, that she doesn’t seem to notice.

“I refuse to accept that there is nothing that can be done to help him.” There is passion in her voice, an unquenchable fire that Hannibal makes a mental note of. While her passion and drive are qualities he values, there is always the chance she may get in his way and it would be a shame if he has to dispose of her after all these years. As regretful as it had been to do away with Abigail, Alana’s passing would be one he would mourn. He would get over it, of course, but in his own fashion he would mourn. 

“I have some thoughts as to what can be done for him. Let me give the matter more consideration,” he says and it’s true, he has already started to make preparations. There is a cheap pen wrapped in a silk handkerchief in his breast pocket and the lightest sketch of an idea already forming in his mind. Even half-comatose Will presents a more interesting challenge then the rest of Maryland is able to provide, and that is worth remembering. 

Later that night, as he turns down the bedclothes, he finds his thoughts turning to the man he saw today. As naive as it is, there is a part of Hannibal that fancied that Will would somehow stay in stasis during his incarceration. That he could return to see his living masterpiece as it was when last he left it, brilliant and unchanged. That the broken thing Will had become would be preserved, like a specimen on a slide, to be studied at leisure. Which is the trouble with leaving a living monument, after all, it has that nasty habit of evolving. Which is why Hannibal prefers to work in the medium of death, it’s less mercurial.

Hannibal’s hand wanders down his body lazily as he casts aside the problem of Will for the moment. He was able to bend his mind once, and he relishes the idea of molding it once more. Instead, he brings forward his newest fantasy, the one that has kept him company all these lonely nights. He sees Will standing before him, shivering.

“Are you a killer, Will?” He goads, testing. “In this moment?” 

Hannibal’s hands clasps his straining cock as he remembers the gun, lifting with deadly purpose, and he comes to the echo of a spray of blood in his face, the memory of tasting Will’s vitality on his tongue. 

_Will can see through the rain._

_He’s not sure where he is or what it is he’s looking for, but he knows the answer is somewhere in that second floor window that shines through the downpour, cutting through the night like a sharpened knife. There’s a figure and he knows instinctively that it can’t see him where he’s hidden by the dark, but he can see where they stand, motionless._

_He turns his face up to the sky and can feel the kiss of water as it runs down his cheeks and through his hair. Will lets it soak him down._

“This is better now, isn’t it? Now that we are alone,” Hannibal says, as the guard finally leaves him in Will’s cell. It’s taken a fair bit of convincing, but Hannibal is nothing if not persuasive. 

He considers the man with shorn hair and distant eyes before him, his fountain pen uncapped in his hand although he has no intention of taking notes. That is for later tonight, after he has carefully considered what he needs to put to paper to cover his tracks. For now, it is a useful tool, a prop, to lend to Hannibal the appearance of concerned professional.

“Where are you Will?”

_There’s a quarter in his pocket and Will fishes it out of his sodden jeans. He knows he only has the one so he’s going to have to make it count. The pay phone is near enough he doesn’t have to break his gaze from where it rests on the figure in the window. In his ear the phone rings, but the figure still doesn’t move. Before the answering machine can pick up he hastily pushes down the hookswitch. He can hear the clang as the quarter is released and he sticks it back in, tries again._

“While you may not have responded to anyone else-”

_Will might not know why but the thrum of nerves is all he needs to tell him this is important. He’s got to get through-_

“- I know you will respond to me. Or do I need to take drastic measures?”

_-even if he doesn’t know what that horrible looming danger is that makes his heart beat just that much faster. He kills the call with an index finger, fishes the quarter out to try again-_

“Forgive me,” Hannibal says as he moves Will’s hand from where it rests on his own lap. He palpates the skin until he finds a spot where the muscle is thick and drives an uncapped pen into the meat of Will’s thigh. 

_There’s the brightest flash of light and suddenly it’s a Sunday morning._

Will doesn’t so much as flinch from the pain. Hannibal removes the cheap plastic pen with a wrench from Will’s thigh and caps the now-bloody instrument. Once more he carefully wraps the clean handkerchief around it, mindful of the blood and careful not to leave fingerprints. He replaces Will’s hand so that it covers the evidence of violence and he can see red begin to soak the grey jumpsuit, the sluggish spread of it as it oozes between his fingers. 

“Now, let’s try this again,” he says, changing the cheap Bic for his familiar fountain pen and holding it to his notebook. “Where are you?”

_He is practicing scales on his mother’s old upright piano, the familiar click of a metronome keeping time as his fingers stretch up and down the yellowed keys. From the kitchen comes the rise and fall of his mother’s voice having a conversation and from her hushed voice Will knows she doesn’t want him to hear it._

_He knows how this one goes, and he wants so badly to leave this memory to the deepest pits of his mind, where it can molder as it has all these years._

_“Will?” His mom calls and her voice is strange. “I’m going to run the bath.”_

_He can feel panic start to set in as the Will playing scales shrugs, unconcerned._

Hannibal watches as Will’s lips move, soundless. He lays his palm on the top of Will’s bloodied hand and presses down, hard. There’s a flicker of something in Will’s eyes, the faintest blink from his eyelids, and Hannibal absently licks his hand where Will’s blood has dotted his skin.

“Where are you now?”

He leans in close and through a croak that sounds more like a door creaking open in the wind, Hannibal can hear him say.

“I’m-”

_-digging, but this time it’s raining and the dirt under his feet is a thick sludge. It’s the same rain as before and when he looks up he can see the light from a window and a stranger standing, still, inside. He doesn’t have a pay phone anymore, he just has a shovel, and it makes sense that the more he digs the better his chances are of warning the figure of danger._

“Who’s in that window, Will?”

_-it’s too hard to tell through the rain and the mud-_

Hannibal pressed down on Will’s hand again, can hear the faint intake of breath that could only generously be called a gasp. For Hannibal, the keen senses he’s developed over years of hunting make easy work of deciphering the breathy murmur of Will’s voice.

_He can see clearer now, his eyes possess the sharpened clarity of a predator. From where he stands he can see the heavy draping of the curtain, the faint stirring of cloth as the air conditioner starts to blow._

_The cool air ruffles at the dark hair of the man standing so still and he knows the danger he’s been anticipating is here as a door opens and a man’s voice calls-_

“Will.”

_The still figure turns and he can see it is himself, familiar blue eyes blazing hotly as Hannibal steps into the room._

_“There you are,” Hannibal says, one hand on his shoulder, the other cupping his neck. Will watches as his head tips back at the touch, eyes fluttering passively as the long line of his throat is laid bare._

_Outside the rain has changed into great torrents of dirt, the sputtering dust gets caught in his mouth, is breathed in. He starts to cough as his lungs fill with dirt and his eyes burn but still with his preternatural sight he can see in the window. He wants to call out a warning but the dirt is now in his nostrils and it’s so hard to breathe. All he can do is watch, silent as Hannibal bends down toward the Will in the window. Outside the dirt has started to pile up, surround him, and he knows he is going to be buried alive but he is too transfixed by the sight of Hannibal, navy suit pristine and his cheekbones sharp as glass._

_For a heart stopping second as Will watches, he thinks the other man is going to tear out his jugular with his teeth. The dirt is covering his head now but it’s no matter, Will has lived through worse. Hannibal’s head comes down and presses his lips to the fluttering pulse point at Will’s neck and that’s somehow so much worse._

“What are you doing in there?” Hannibal turns to see the nurse from the week before glowering from the other side of the bars. “You shouldn’t be in there alone.”

“Dr. Chilton-”

“Dr. Chilton is a moron if he thinks this comatose thing isn’t some act,” the nurse interrupts. Rudely. “And you must be one, too, or haven’t you heard about that Gideon guy?”

“Another patient?” Hannibal asks guilelessly. 

“Another psycho. Now get out of there, and the guard can handcuff him if you need to talk to him-”

“No need,” Hannibal says rising smoothly. “My session is finished.”

_”Doctors,”_ the nurse muttered under his breath, turning away, clipboard in hand.

“You seem to have dropped your pen,” Hannibal says as he stoops, the faintest curl of blood visible beneath the pen’s blue cap. 

“I’ve got it,” the nurse says brusquely, snatching the pen away before Hannibal can pick it up. Hannibal nods his farewell and gets only a suspicious glare for his efforts as he leaves to consult with Dr. Chilton. Hannibal doesn’t have much to report, he’s afraid, though he does have some misgivings about the day nurse that Dr. Chilton will be very interested to hear.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to the indomitable Ivy_B
> 
> Feedback is, as always, appreciated

_“What’ll it be, Graham? Beer? Something stronger? Come on, it’s on me.”_

_Will shrugs, his uniform pulling uncomfortably tight around his shoulders and he wishes Patton had let him at least change before dragging him out to this dive bar. He hates socializing at the best of times, and after the day he’s had all he wants is whiskey and the white-out noise of the television. Still he says: “Whatever you’re having,” because by now he’s learned that’s the safest response._

_Most days he feels like his life is some kind of anthropological immersion experiment. Take one high-functioning misanthrope, give him a badge, and see what he can hack on the other side of the thin blue line. Sometimes he wonders who in their right mind would give him of all people a gun, but then he winds up spending most of his time pulling over speeding cars and listening to his partner prattle on about basketball, so maybe someone was on to something when they kept him away from the heavy crime beats._

_Patton is back with two mugs, a pitcher of beer, and some guy that Will doesn’t know._

_“Come on, you’ve got to hear this. Seriously, it’s gonna blow your mind.” Patton pushes an empty glass into Will’s hand and starts to fill it up, cheap beer sloshing over the rim. “Will, tell Huey about the crime scene, he doesn’t believe me that you solved the whole thing before those fuckin’ detectives ever showed up.”_

_Will closes his eyes, can see the blood spray patterns and the shards of fractured skull, he can see the gun going off but before that he sees the fight as she tries to wrestle away from her husband. Worst of all he can see the photographs of a smiling young woman on the fireplace mantle, so breathtakingly young and now nothing but so much meat. He takes a gulp of the beer and tries not to remember what her throat felt like between his fingers, wants to drink away that moment of surprise between pulling the trigger and seeing nothing but gore where her face used to be._

_“It wasn’t really a big deal.”_

_“You should have_ seen _their fuckin’ faces,” Patton says, pounding the table gleefully._

Framing the day nurse for the violence discovered on Will is surprisingly easy, and Hannibal takes a moment to appreciate the public health system that would find it more efficient to sweep a matter of employee misconduct, particularly of the sadistic variety, under the rug than to launch any kind of investigation that would further tarnish the hospital’s already-dubious reputation. If Dr. Chilton has any of his own suspicions, he is self-serving enough to keep them to himself, no doubt wary of losing his position to one too many scandals. 

The new nurse is evidently more felicitously suited for a job as a caregiver, or at least wants to make a good impression on her new superiors, because it is the sight of a clean-shaven Will that greets Hannibal when he enters the cell. 

He waves off the usual misgivings of the guards, promises to call if Will shows signs of coming around, but he only has eyes for the man in front of him. Will’s cheek is smooth and the industrial lighting plays across the pale skin in a way that makes Hannibal careful to slide his hands in his pockets. His lips are chapped and slightly parted, and it is easy to imagine bending down, coaxing words out of Will’s mouth with his tongue, but Hannibal will have to rely on the talking cure for the moment. 

“Good afternoon, Will.”

_The jukebox clicks on and a sad song spills into the beer-stale air. Will watches as the bartender takes a stained rag that has seen better days and wipes down the countertop._

“I don’t want to hear this,” Will whispers. Hannibal is pleased that he is becoming more forthcoming with his responses, more willing to share with Hannibal whatever it is that he sees behind those remarkably blue eyes, even if the rest of him remains motionless.

“What don’t you want to hear?”

“This love song.”

_The song’s an old one, as a woman croons about lost loves and betrayed hearts to a spare guitar._

_“I expect to live single all the days of my life,” she sings, harmonizing with an equally bleak voice, and it’s exactly the sort of thing you’d listen to in a dark barroom as you cry into your drink. It reminds Will entirely too much of his father for comfort._

_“It was fuckin’ amazing,” Patton announces proudly, turning from pounding the table to now pound at Will’s back. His familiarity makes Will huddle closer to his beer and he keeps his eyes down, studies the rapidly vanishing foam._

_“It wasn’t really a big deal,” he repeats. He really doesn’t want to be there, the attention makes his skin crawl._

“Then why don’t you leave?” Hannibal suggests. Wherever Will’s mind has wandered, it is of little interest to Hannibal who is hoping for a better entry point. “Where would you rather go?”

“Away,” he says and his voice is getting louder, more assertive, though Hannibal still needs to linger close to hear it. “Anywhere else.”

_”Can I get you something to drink?”_

_Will startles, his head thunking the plastic window as he jolts upright. A stewardess is offering him a paper napkin, staring at him expectantly._

_“A, uh, a coke is fine,” Will says, accepting the cold can._

_“And your companion?”_

_Will looks at the seat next to him, as if the answers could be found in the empty cushions, but he has no idea who he might be traveling with. Under the seat he doesn’t see a carry on. The only thing he sees is an incongruous red card, laying face down on the floor._

“Who are you with, Will?” Hannibal prods but Will shakes his head and Hannibal briefly misses the curls that would have once complimented the movement. 

“I don’t know. They must be in the lavatory, but I’m not sure who...”

“Might it be Abigail?”

“That’s a possibility,” Will says, uncertain. 

_The stewardess moves on to the next row at Will’s helpless shrug. He opens the can, empties it into the waiting plastic cup, but his hands are still restless, nervous, and he doesn’t know why. Absentmindedly Will works the tab of the can until it comes free in his fingers._

“Where are you going, on this airplane of yours?”

”I’m not sure.”

_Sliding up the plastic shade does little to determine his location. All he can see is the impossible blue of the sky and the glaring white of clouds. Pressing his face to the window, he can just make out the faintest blur of landscape, but it is an unfinished thought, unimportant._

_A tremor shakes the plane, the stomach-plummeting feel of unexpected turbulence even though outside the window is bright, drenched in sunlight. Will’s coke spills, splashes on to the tray table. When he looks he can see something dark on the horizon, like gathering storm clouds._

“Perhaps this is a memory,” Hannibal presses. “You never remembered returning from Minnesota.”

“It could be.”

Hannibal can see the opening for what it is and he wonders briefly how resistant Will would be to psychic driving. As sloppy as he finds the whole business, it might serve Hannibal’s purposes. 

_The plane’s side begins to tremble and the seatbelt sign flashes wildly. Behind him there’s a flurry of preparations but Will’s eyes are captivated by the clouds, approaching fast._

“Might this be the memory you repressed, after you killed Abigail?”

_Metal groans and the plane gives a tremendous lurch before the world falls apart._

“I don’t-” Will breath is coming faster now, his eyes flicker back and forth wildly.

“You remember fighting with her in Minnesota. You remember fantasizing about killing her--”

_A woman screams as the jittering plane slams sideways and Will can feel the agonizing pain as his head is dashed against the window, he can feel it all the way in his teeth._

“-- and it isn’t as if there is a lack of evidence supporting your part in her death. You were convicted, after all.”

_Outside the rain pours down great torrents of dirt. It pelts at the window, demanding to be let in. Will can smell the musk of earth as it batters the plane, throws the passengers every which way. His cup flies away as his torso slams into the tray table, he can feel the ache of a newly forming bruise across his sternum and his eyes wince shut with the pain._

Will’s eyes close, thick eyelashes hiding the familiar blue irises from Hannibal.

“What do you remember, Will?”

_As the plane careens wildly the playing card flutters onto Will’s chest, lands right over where the pain is. Now he can see it’s the king of hearts, the red of the drawing’s crown saturates, becomes darker. For a brief moment Will wonders if he’s bleeding--_

Hannibal leans in close and finally allows himself to give into temptation, runs a knuckle across the sharp plane of Will’s cheekbone. It’s more prominent than Hannibal can remember, the other man’s cheeks sunken from weight loss, but the skin is soft, smooth. He smells of generic shaving cream and cheap bar soap, but underneath Hannibal can detect the heady smell of _Will_ that he had almost forgotten. 

“Let me in,” he says, whispering close to Will’s ear and now he’s near enough he can see the crusted over edge of where the new nurse had nicked the complicated surface of Will’s jaw. 

_He’s in his kitchen and he knows this scene too well, has played it over and over too many times to not recognize the morning light as it lingers across the silver of the faucet. He knows what he’ll see in the sink basin when he steps in closer, where this sick feeling in his stomach will end, and no matter how much he tries to stop himself from moving, he can’t change this memory._

“No,” Will breaths and Hannibal can almost see the words as they float from the other man’s mouth. He presses his finger to the cut, worries it with a fingernail until the shine of opened skin glimmers at the surface.

_Will steps forward and despite his best efforts he takes another three steps and now he can feel it. The horrible retching, his body rejecting this thing inside of him that has no business being there. And then he sees it: the bloodied stump of an ear and Will’s stomach lurches again, just like it did that day._

_“No,” he wants to turn away but he can’t. He’s rooted to the spot until he’s not and he finds himself taking those steps forward again and again, the expulsion of his body, the shock of that first sight repeated ad nauseam and he’s never fully appreciate that term until now._

“Where are you now?”

_He’s taking three steps forward, caught in an endless loop of horrifying discovery._

“Good. Now, what do you see?”

_Oh God, he can see that bloodied ear, and he knows in his bones whose it is. He doesn’t need forensics to tell him, and he knows that they will, but in this moment he knows the horrible truth._

“Abigail,” Will says the name as if Hannibal is carving it out of him. A sweet pang of pleasure sweeps across Hannibal’s skin at the wretched sound. 

_He wants to fight the flickering moment that sets him three paces backwards but he can’t and now he’s back staring down but this time something is different. He gags, spits, but instead of mangled flesh there’s a playing card laying face down. He_ knows _it’s the king of hearts, just like in the airplane and it’s enough of a change._

_It’s just enough._

Will’s fingers jerk upward from his lap, spasming, and it’s like he’s reaching for something--

_He can touch the faucet and although there’s a pressure soaking his limbs that turns his hands to lead he can just reach out._

\--and Hannibal steps around to get a better view, can see Will’s eyes moving rapidly against his eyelids, captured tight in the grip of his imagination. As he does Will’s fingers lurch again, become tangled in the fine fabric of Hannibal’s shirt. 

_He flips the taps on and instead of water, dirt comes pouring out. Dust clouds the air, an impossibly dense fog and Will finds himself choking as he breathes it in._

Will pulls and Hannibal’s shirt is unceremoniously ripped open, sending a button flying across the room. He makes a sound of surprise and immediately regrets it as he hears the sound of running. 

“Dr. Lecter!” a guard calls out, charging into the cell, baton unsheathed. Hannibal is shoved backwards, with enough force that he can feel cold cement against his back. He watches as another guard and then another pour into the cell, wrestle Will until he is facedown on the floor. 

“Please,” Hannibal tries, forcing concern into his voice but they are too busy wrenching Will’s arms behind his back, twisting his uncooperative wrists together to notice. Will is handcuffed and still he fights, hands jerking against the restraints until his reddened skin breaks. 

“We need a sedative in here,” one of the guards yells into his radio. 

_Morning light is eclipsed as the dirt piles up, filling his kitchen, climbing up his body with inky nothingness and Will has no choice but to surrender to the void._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks once more to Ivy_B for the hand holding and word wrangling 
> 
> As always, feedback is like the fried chicken to my waffles.

_From where he lays Will can hear the sounds of diesel trucks rolling down I-95. The bedspread underneath him is cheap, has a vague plastic sheen to it, and he tries not to imagine all the people who have been exactly where he is and all the things they might have done. The smell of too-much disinfectant isn’t reassuring and with an imagination like his it’s no easy feat to block those musings so instead he concentrates on the sound of the trucks. They rumble past and it almost sounds like the ocean, like waves drawing away from the shore. For a moment he thinks that maybe when those waves return they’ll be able to wash him clean, cleanse his mind of the blood that saturates every thought, awake and asleep alike._

_This isn’t his memory, but it’s close._

_Outside the window he can just make out the glow of a sign that warns there’s No Vacancy and it’s hard to imagine a rat trap like this is filled up but that’s what happens when the swarm of locusts that is the FBI descends on a crime in rural America._

_The bathroom light is on, comes sneaking through underneath the closed door and Will wonders who’s in there. This part is unfamiliar but not distressingly so, and he waits for the door to open while outside the window the neon light catches fire. Orange flames flicker, lick at the glass pane, but Will isn’t worried. Vaguely, he knows he should be, but it’s not an immediate thought rather it’s like something he remembers from years ago. He knows this fire, recognizes this fire, but it’s long since burned out so now he can just prop his hands beneath his head and enjoy the glow._

_“Where are you?” Comes the familiar question and it makes a slow smile spread across his face._

_This question, too, is a memory. It’s an echo from all the other times before it so Will’s not concerned when Hannibal is sitting on the bed beside him. Hannibal’s hand reaches out, touches his cheek and Will wants to tip his face into the waiting palm but he finds he can’t._

_“Why can’t I move?”_

_“That’s the sedative,” Hannibal says. So reasonable, he’s always so reasonable._

_“Oh.”_

_“Would you like to move?”_

_“Mm,” Will doesn’t-quite answer. The hand that was wandering along his cheek settles into his hair and for once Will doesn’t mind. Growing up his hair always attracted attention, when teachers and complete strangers alike would run their fingers through it. As much as Will shies away from the spotlight as an adult he was even more reticent to be noticed as a boy and would cringe away from the scrutiny. This touch, though, feels different. There’s nothing exploratory in it, instead the hand is proprietary, commanding as it pulls until Will’s head is tipping sideways. A shadow descends, he feels lips on his pulse point as his eyes wander past to the window. Outside the world is incinerating, there’s nothing beyond that wall of fire that beats at the glass, demanding to be let it._

_“Where are you, Will?” The voice coaxes again with a lilt that’s almost musical._

_“I’m here,” he whispers, and Hannibal sighs, disappointed. A well-manicured hand is pulling at the curtains, drawing the cigarette-burned and stained fabric down and for a split second Will’s looking at a fragment from another place._

_An airplane._

_An empty seat._

_**Who are you with?** _

_The skies are filled with pelting dirt and clouds of dust as the same hand draws the plastic shade down, hiding the sight from him._

_“You aren’t meant to see that,” and he should fight, should rip open the curtains himself, rend the fabric and the plastic until there’s nothing to stop him from seeing what’s out there, what Hannibal doesn’t want him to see._

_But it’s a passing thought. He can’t move, after all, and the lethargy that fills his limbs feeds his apathy. “Why don’t I care more?”_

_“That’s the sedative,” comes the answer as reasonable as before._

_“Oh, yeah. That’s right.” A tug at his hair pulls his neck taut. “What are you doing?”_

_A chuckle. “Anything I want.”_

_“Is this real?” He asks as the walls breathe._

_“What do you think?”_

_“Sometimes it’s hard to tell,” Will confesses, almost apologetically but then again, that’s something Hannibal would know, isn’t it? Hannibal’s back is broad and when he drapes over Will he’s surprised anew at how_ large _the other man is. His presence consumes the space around until there’s nothing but his body pressed to Will’s. “Are we going to have sex?”_

_“It’s a possibility,” he settles, relaxes, and it’s almost like being buried alive again. For a moment Will can smell the musk of dirt and can feel the familiar compression of a caving-in ditch against his sides. He expects to choke on dust but his mouth fills with Hannibal’s tongue instead.  
Will breaks away, panting. “Does this mean I’ve had some kind of subconscious desire to sleep with you this whole time?”_

_“Are you psychoanalyzing yourself within your own psyche?”_

_“I’ve always been an overachiever,” Will says, matching kiss for kiss as he speaks the words. Looking down he realizes he’s naked, his clothes either have mysteriously vanished or they were never there to begin with. Hannibal is as impeccably dressed, as always, even down to his leather shoes. “I’m guessing this is a metaphor, too.”_

_“Do you generally feel exposed around me?”_

_“More exposed then you ever are. You’re always so contained, so meticulously put together. Even though I know the truth-”_

_“You think you know the truth,” Hannibal uncharacteristically cuts in, running his hands down Will’s torso. “But what do you really know?”_

_“I know I didn’t kill all those people. I know I’m not the Copycat.”_

_“True enough,” Hannibal drives his knees between Will’s thighs._

_“I was set up,” Will gasps as Hannibal grinds down, sweet friction burns where their groins meet. “You-”_

_Will can’t finish that sentence, it falls away into a desperate groan. Hannibal doesn’t seem affected, his words are clear. “You think it was me, but are you so sure? You pieced all this together while under the grips of a debilitating illness. Are you so certain I’m the Copycat Killer?”_

_“The Copycat is an intelligent sociopath. You’re intelligent.”_

_“As are you,” Hannibal says as he takes Will’s legs in hand, lifting them up until Will can feel his knees on his own chest. “The question is, of course, am I a sociopath? Although that would be rather hard to discern if I’m as intelligent as you suspect the Copycat to be. Have I exhibited a low threshold for frustration or a disregard for social norms? Do I have an inability to form long term relationships? There was Abigail, after all, I seemed fond of her.”_

_“But then she died. If you are the Copycat then that just proves my point.”_

_“There’s Alana Bloom, I’ve known her for a very long time.” It’s strange, he can feel Hannibal, the blunt head of his erection as it finds where Will yields, even though from where Will can see he is still fully dressed with not even a hair out of place. “Then of course there’s you.”_

_“Unless, of course, you set me-” Will starts but is interrupted as he is breached, he can feel himself stretch, eager to take in the length though there is no pain. He wants to bear down, to writhe as he is pinned to the cheap mattress, but he can’t move._

_Sedatives, he thinks. Right._

_Hannibal set a pace and Will has no choice but to take it, to follow the other man’s hips with his hips. He can feel himself start to drift, lost in the rhythm of their coupling and he can hear the trucks again. His eyes close as he listens to the sounds of the ocean, he is rocked to and fro, battered by waves._

_In the distance there’s a steady beep, he knows the sound, has heard it in many a hospital room. It doesn’t belong here in this hotel room so it’s easy to ignore along with the smell of antiseptic and the heavy iron weight wrapped tight around his wrists and ankles._


End file.
